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Full text of "To The Lighthouse"

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could almost fancy that had Mr. Carmichael
spoken, a little tear would have rent the surface
of the pool. And then? Something would
emerge. A hand would be shoved up, a blade
would be flashed. It was nonsense of course.

A curious notion came to her that he did after

all hear the things she could not say.   He was an

inscrutable old man, with the yellow stain on his

beard, and his poetry, and his puzzles, sailing

serenely through a world which satisfied all his

wants, so that she thought he had only to put

down his hand where he lay on the lawn to fish

up  anything  he  wanted.     She  looked  at her

picture.    That  would  have  been   his  answer,

presumably—how " you " and " I " and " she "

pass and vanish; nothing stays; all changes; but

not words, not paint.   Yet it would be hung in

the attics, she thought; it would be rolled up and

flung under a sofa; yet even so, even of a picture

like that, it was true.    One might say, even of

this scrawl, not of that actual picture, perhaps,

but of what it attempted, that it " remained for

ever", she was going to say, or, for the words

spoken sounded even to herself, too boastful, to

hint, wordlessly; when, looking at the picture, she

was surprised to find that she could not see it.

Her eyes were full of a hot liquid (she did not

think of tears at first) which, without disturbing